


15 Mo(u)rnings

by Oatsotas



Series: Sixteen Stories of Fifteen [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hope's Peak Academy (Dangan Ronpa), Character Death, Coping, Denial of Feelings, Depression, F/M, Friendship, I will write something happy, Loss, Post-Loss, Self-Denial, Sickfic, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, one of these days, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 00:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14123697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oatsotas/pseuds/Oatsotas
Summary: Kaito had been sick for a long time. He knew he didn't have long. Two days ago, his time came. These 15 mornings, 15 students will need to pick up the pieces of 15 shattered hearts that he left behind. A story of 15 mornings and 15 mournings.





	15 Mo(u)rnings

**3:27 a.m.**

 

The sky is beautiful. At least, Shuichi assumes it is. He's pulled his hat so low over his eyes that he can't really see anything. It smells like old sweat, the inside permanently stained from overuse. His back aches against the cool concrete of the roof. Branches smack against the side of the building as a gust of wind blows them, an irregular rhythm, an irregular, violent heartbeat.

Shuichi's heart lurches. He takes his hand off his hat to clutch his chest. As he does so, another bout of wind blows his hat off to the side, revealing the night sky to him.

It's a majestic sight. The billowing darkness, endless, swirls between the shining stars, threatening to consume them were it not for the indomitable flame each star is made of. That Kaito was made of. The lights from the city below reflect in that darkness. A subtle golden glow kisses the sky with warmth and spotlights from a concert that went late streak erratic patterns like drunk dancers. The blue spotlights mix with the black and gold, transforming into a sinister purple, a purple that's far too close to the coat Kaito wears.

Wore.

Shuichi sits up, he can't bear to look at the sky anymore. Tears well in his eyes but refuse to fall. He grabs his hat, doesn't put it on, simply stares at the concrete. Drab, gray, lifeless. Will Kaito's coffin look like this? The stone slab that will be poured over it? Kaito deserves more than that. The tears fall free, fast, hot, a torrent of salty frustration. 

Why couldn't Kaito have been murdered?

It's a horrible thought. But if Kaito had been murdered, then Shuichi could've thrown himself into solving it. Spent night after morning after night after morning pouring through details and putting it all together, to bring Kaito's would-be killer to justice. To get closure. To let Kaito rest in peace. Then again, knowing him, he'd probably make the afterlife one big party.

Shuichi smiles. He can't stop crying. A puddle forms in the base of his hat. It had been Kaito that convinced him to ditch the hat, ultimately. 

Standing up, Shuichi walks to the edge of the building that borders the forest where the trees whip in a frenzy. He tosses his hat into the woods, hoping the flailing branches tear it to shreds. Then he falls back down and shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Shuichi cries for the rest of the morning.

 

**4:02 a.m.**

 

Kiibo doesn't understand. His battery is designed for maximum efficiency. Thus, he only requires charging once every three days compared to the rest of his classmates who need to do so every night. Quite an amazing achievement, if Kiibo does say so himself! So then why?

Why does he feel so tired?

His internal battery registers 89 percent charged; he should be more than fine. But his arms are heavy, as if the chassis is made of lead. And his eyes. When he turns them on, he instantly wants to shut them back off. His own room is offensive to him. And he's laying down. He never lays down unless it's for maintenance. Maybe he should see Miu?

It could be related to Kaito's passing. He had cross-referenced every seemingly reputable website concerning the after-effects of one close to you dying and found that the symptoms he's experiencing line up well. An almost exact match, in fact.

As much as he doesn't want to admit it, however, he cannot truly feel human emotions. He can replicate them to a degree that is practically undetectable. But he doesn't truly feel them. They are lines and lines and lines of code that whizz through his head the moment he needs to feel something.

So why does it all hurt so much? Why did the polyfiber skin feel as if it shuddered when he heard the news? It doesn't have that function. Why did his insides suddenly feel empty? He double-checked and all of his parts were still there. Why? Why? Why why why why why?

Why does it all hurt so much?

He turns on his side and wraps his arms around his knees. Humans call this the fetal position, based on it mimicking the position that fetuses form in the womb that functions as a comfort mechanism. But he shouldn't need it.

He tries to run an emotion override program, one designed to help him make clear-headed decisions in the case of emergencies.

It fails. It fails over and over again.

Kiibo tries to run that program for the rest of the morning.

 

**4:43 a.m.**

 

Ryoma shouldn't be here. The gym and tennis courts are closed during the night and he's technically breaking curfew. Maybe the teachers left it unlocked in the hope that he'd randomly get the urge to play tennis in the middle of the night. He wouldn't put it past them. He also won't admit that they may have been right, if for the wrong reason.

He's holding a tennis racket in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other - the rest of the pack being in his jacket pocket. That's another benefit of having unlimited access to a private tennis court - smoking whenever he wants. It was a habit he picked up in prison.

He heads to the far end of the court, where the ventilation vent pumps perfect-temperature air into the room. Setting his racket against the wall, he flicks a lighter and holds it to his cigarette. It doesn't catch. He tries again. This time it catches.

A thin trail of smoke winds its way up from the end of the cigarette, only to be whisked away by the vents. It'd been a good day when he discovered he could smoke without setting off the fire alarm. Besides, he needed it to deal with his classmates. Especially now.

Putting the cigarette to his lips, Ryoma takes a long drag, holding the smoke in his cheeks for a moment before fully inhaling it. Supposedly it helps the flavors develop. He just likes the feel. Delicate, present, but not overwhelming. Like cotton candy without the overwhelming sweetness.

But this time it's different. Instead of that pleasant fullness, he feels his lungs constrict. No, be constricted. Smoke tendrils wrap around his lungs and squeeze, pushing air out with each tightening. One tendril replaces the blood in his heart with smoke. His heart pumps and Ryoma hacks. The smoke escapes in violent spurts, weighed down with thick, mucous-filled saliva.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

What if Kaito had smoked? Would he have made it as long as he did? Would he have made it to high school? Maybe if Kaito had smoked himself to death then Ryoma would be able to smoke in peace.

He flicks the cigarette onto the floor and stamps it out. Taking the pack out of his pocket, he jams it into the broken strings on one of the rackets affixed to the automated tennis machine. He starts up the machine and grabs his racket, then takes his place on the other end of the court. The machine launches a ball and his instincts take over.

Ryoma plays against the machine, aiming for the pack of cigarettes, for the rest of the morning.

 

**5:10 a.m.**

 

An elegy, a poem of serious reflection, usually a lament for the dead. Poems of tragedy and loss, written as much for the poet as the audience. Perhaps, Kaede thinks, perhaps she can channel that poet's spirit into a song. A piano elegy. A goodbye to Kaito.

What would make a good song for him? Something lively to match his vivacious spirit? But that could be construed as disrespectful, as Kaede being glad that he's gone, that she's celebrating - which she most certainly isn't. But a somber, slow piece doesn't fit him either. He'd fall asleep. Patriotic, then? Kaito would be a symbol of Japan with how much he would have furthered space exploration.

Would have.

Kaede bunches her brown uniform skirt (which she hasn't changed since the two days it's been when she heard the news) in her fists and chokes back a sob. The piano keys, which usually calm her and call to her, now seem to be the enemy. Just last week she had been playing a piece for Kaito. He'd said that he didn't really understand it, but he felt all warm inside, empowered.

She'd played a portion of  _ Jupiter _ , from Gustav Holst.

Kaede hops from her seat and scours the wall of music that dominates her study space. She finds the entirety of  _ The Planets _ . At least, the piano parts or parts transposed for piano. Oh she must include some of this in his elegy. If he never made it to space in life, then perhaps in music. 

A sudden burst of inspiration strikes her. She begins pulling piece after piece from her wall. 

Frank Tichelli's  _ American Elegy,  _ for that somber, but heartwarming quality.

_ Streams  _ by Johannes Bornlöf, for the peace, so that maybe Kaito will finally be able to rest.

Elegie Op. 3 No. 1 by Rachmaninoff, to add a haunting whimsy.

_ Clair de Lune _ , of course, because no piece is complete without Debussy.

With her arms full of sheet music, Kaede hefts it all back to her piano and manages to organize it so that the pieces of paper stand on the precipice of falling. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, holds her hands over the keys-

-and can't move a muscle. Her eyes shoot to her hands. She can't move them, as if someone had injected quick-drying concrete into her veins and now her hands are stone. Her statued hands float above the keys.

The music falls and scatters along the ground.

Kaede's hands hover over the piano keys for the rest of the morning.

 

**5:17 a.m.**

 

So many tomes. There are so many tomes in Hope's Peak's unending library. Himiko sits at a small table, ancient and not-so-ancient books on magic surrounding her, piled high, some with pages earmarked, others thrown onto the ground in a fit of exasperation. Himiko nestles her head in her arms, letting her eyes droop dangerously near to closing. 

How hard is it to find a simple resurrection spell?

There was one tome (that now is in a trash can) that had something close to what she was looking for, but it was ultimately a necromancy book. She doesn't want a thrall of Kaito, she just wants Kaito.

He was loud, he was tiring. And he's made everyone else sad, which is exhausting. So many emotions, so many people fluttering around. Media and parents and old friends and teachers and administrators and doctors and… nyeh. It was all so much and she couldn't deal with it. Too much effort.

So her plan was to find a quick resurrection spell and bring Kaito back. That way everything would go back to normal.

But there was nothing. All these books were a bunch of phonies. They sounded magical and cool but they all either relied on tricks or silly superstitions. Or necromancy. And she's Himiko Yumeno, the Ultimate Mage. There must be  _ something  _ that speaks to a mage of her caliber.

She stands up and heads back to a shelf that she's browsed six times already. Several of the more useful books she'd already grabbed, but there might have been some really good ones hidden by invisibility charms. In fact, she was certain there were. There had to be.

There  _ had  _ to be something. Something that can bring Kaito back.

She traces her fingers along the spines of books. All useless. All talking about the history of magic in various countries or the "real-life" tricks behind magic (tricks that she  _ doesn't  _ use!). 

She grabs the top of one books entitled "Simple Beginner Spells" for a moment. Maybe this one was written by a super high level mage that was so advanced that they considered resurrection spells to be simple. That had to be it!

With a flourish, she snatches the book and slams it back on the desk, flipping through the pages rapidly. Her heart drops as she sees it's filled with nothing but tricks again.

No… no it  _ has  _ to be here. She throws the book across the room, nearly knocking over a small promotional display. There  _ has  _ to be something here. Please, let there be something here.

A wail escapes her as she drops to her knees. Tenko had told her so many times that it was good to let out emotions and Kaito had lived that too. But it's so exhausting, it hurts so much. Her knees hurt where she hit the floor. Her arms hurt from carrying so many heavy books. Her chest hurts because Kaito is dead and there's nothing she can do. Her eyes hurt because her tears sting.

There has to be something she hasn't tried. Divination, astrology, dark arts. Something.

Himiko runs through every trick in the book for the rest of the morning.

 

**5:31:21 a.m.**

 

Kirumi's knife cuts through the basil as if the knife were a lawnmower. She nimbly chops the seasoning before garnishing her frittata with it, then stuffs the breakfast into the refrigerator. Can't risk it being exposed to potentially harmful bacteria - that could make someone sick and a maid's duty is to ensure the health of her classmates. That's why she chose a salmon frittata, full of heart-healthy omega-3s and other nutrients that are absolutely vital to her classmates' futures.

Inside the refrigerator are also several containers of overnight oats with blueberries or strawberries, depending on the preference. Kirumi grabs a large package of eggs and walks to the stove. She cracks several and begins scrambling them. The early risers of her class will be waking shortly so everything must be prepped by then. The overnight oats and frittata will be fine cold or warmed up, but the eggs should be fresh and her classmates can have toast or english muffins with their eggs, should they so choose. Oh, they also should have a fruit or light vegetable dish. She adds that to her ever-growing mental list of tasks to do. To protect her classmates, her ultimate duty.

One she failed at.

She stirs the eggs vigorously, the fork scraping the pan, screeching. Why is that such an irritating noise? Why can't the fork stop making that awful noise?

Because she forgot. She forgot to check on him.

And she forgot to check on her classmates schedules. She needs to make sure that they all have doctor's appointments coming up shortly.

Sure, the staff at Hope's Peak is top notch, but the Ultimate Nurse is only one person and it never hurts to have another opinion, especially when it's a matter as serious as health. Right? Right?

They had told her Kaito was going to be fine when she voiced her concerns.

Oh dear, the eggs burned. A disgusting, congealed mess that she deposits into the trash before cracking several more into the pan. The sizzling is much better than the screeching.  She's more careful this time, cooking the eggs until they are perfectly fluffy. Now she has to to divide them up into equal servings. Well, not equal, of course, she has to take into account her classmates' different dietary needs based on size, past medical history, current level of activity, predicted level of activity, current stressors, willingness to eat, time be-

Willingness. Willingness is mental. She needs to schedule them therapy as well. Even those who will resist it. After all, it is only natural to need counselling during grieving and as much as she would live to provide that counsel, there is simply too much to do. And she doesn't need it, so she can devote herself fully to her tasks tasks tasks tasks.

Kirumi grabs the knife and begins chopping at the eggs. Less for Himiko, more for Tenko. Ryoma won't eat, Gonta needs more. Oh, how much will Tsumugi eat? She can be unpredictable and the irritating girl didn't give Kirumi her medical information so now Kirumi can't make up

Slice.

A quick stream of blood dribbles onto the eggs from Kirumi's finger as she cuts it. For a brief moment, Kirumi doesn't even register that she's hurt. She simply stares at the blood oozing from her finger and can only think of Kaito being covered in it as she watched him be hauled away in an ambulance.

They said he'd be fine.

Kirumi makes and remakes eggs for the rest of the morning.

 

**6:26 a.m**

 

In South Korea, the dead are sometimes cremated then pressed into colorful beads.

In the Sagada municipality of the Philippines, the dead are hung in coffins from the sides of cliffs.

During the Han Dynasty in China, royalty were sometimes entombed in armor made of jade.

In the city of New Orleans in the United States, funerals were sometimes accompanied by jazz bands.

Some Buddhist sects in Tibet allow corpses to be picked clean by vultures then feed the ground up bones to crows in what is known as a sky burial.

Indeed, Korekiyo knows much about the various rituals that surround those who have died. It is something perhaps the most unique to humans. Many animals grieve their young, but humans have such elaborate, symbolic practices to honor those who are no longer alive.

Of course, for as much as honor and afterlifes and respect are key reasons cited for funerals, many psychologists would agree that funerals are for the living. To allow the living to cope with the loss. To seek closure and comfort.

Death truly brings out the most beautiful in humans!

A small portrait of Kaito rests on a makeshift altar that Korekiyo constructed in his room earlier. The portrait is flanked by white lilies. On either side, aromatic incense burn slow. Korekiyo bows to Kaito's portrait, then rises. As he does so, he puts his hands together, fingers fully extended, but together. It's not in prayer, but rather as a simple gesture of comraderie, similar to how they thank their host for food before eating. 

He's not entirely sure why he's doing this simplistic ritual. Kaito was a fascinating subject to be sure, but the cardinal rule of anthropology is to never get too close that you become unable to observe. Sure, he had been a part of Kaito's antics from time to time, but Korekiyo had always preferred to simply watch and make notes on the eccentric man.

Had Kaito been a woman, he would have made a fine friend for his sister.

Korekiyo places a bandaged finger against his chin. Perhaps these death rituals are, indeed, necessary. He was never permitted to properly grieve his sister's loss and thus he still thinks of it to this day. His heart pounds against his ribs.

How human.

Korekiyo picks up his journal and begins to examine his classmates' schedules and usual habits. Of course, they likely will break these patterns given the circumstances, but it will still be an enlightening examination of how Japanese students deal with grief.

Korekiyo plans his observations in front of the shrine for the rest of the morning.

 

**6:42 a.m.**

 

Thud! Thud! Thud! Tenko hits the punching bag with everything she has.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Tenko thinks in time with each punch.

That stupid, dumb, awful, annoying degenerate male. He had to go an make all of the girls so miserable. Tenko doesn't know why they feel that way. He was obnoxious, he was always too loud when he spoke, he smelled like awful cologne half the time, he got  _ way  _ too close to Maki for Tenko's liking, he was always there to lend a hand, he believed in everybody, tried to make sure everyone was smiling…

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

Tenko ramps up the speed of her workout. The floor is slick with her sweat. How long has she been going? She lost track of time the second she started. It wasn't about the time, it was about the quality her master had said.

Was it the same for Kaito? She, admittedly, hadn't spent much time around him. He was too manly for her. Obsessed with being a man and making sweet, delicate Shuichi into a man with him. Degenerate.

But the bits she did spend with him. They were quality.

Once, she joined him, Maki, and Shuichi in their late night training. More out of curiosity than anything. She remembers being unimpressed. Kaito had just sat there while Shuichi could barely do ten push-ups. Maki, as expected, blew the two males out of the water. 

Yet, she remembers smiling. She remembers laughing as Kaito shouted words of encouragement to all of them. All of them. As much as the training was for Shuichi, he never seemed to favor him. When Tenko lost her footing doing jumping jacks, he was right there with a hand extended to help her up.

Her stomach cramps as she remembers smacking it away.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thudthudthudthudthudthud! Rapid fire punches, throwing a few kicks in there for good measure. By the time she finishes her assault, her breathing is labored and she can't tell her sweat from her tears.

Stupid! Degenerate! Male!

She latches onto the sides of the punching bag, then rests her forehead against it. The smooth plastic surface is slick but she can't work out properly with the way her chest is heaving with sobs and exhaustion. Her entire body shakes as she cries, trying to let it all out as quickly as possible. This will be her break.

Tenko assails the punching bag for the rest of the morning.

 

**7:01 a.m.**

 

Ants scurry along in their farm, some burrowing their way through the sand to continue building their nest while others rush to the top where Gonta has just fed them. Others work diligently, taking care of the queen, making sure the eggs are looked after. Such smart, hard-working bugs. Not like Gonta, he thinks.

Of course, he knows these ants are  _ Linepithema humile _ . He knows their habits, that mating ants come to maturity in three months, that they prefer sweet foods, that he must be careful to keep them contained or else they will try to force out native ant species.

There's a body in one of the passages. A dead ant. The others crawl over it, barely registering that it's there. For all the things Gonta knows, he doesn't know why such wonderful bugs have such a short life-span.

He doesn't know why Kaito had such a short life-span.

He's used to bugs dying. They live short and fast. Maturing and finding mates and dying is their goal. So Gonta tries to make that short life as fun and productive as he can.

Did he do that with Kaito?

Moving around the room to the various displays, Gonta carefully measures out the proper amount of food for each species. No more, no less. Giving too much or too little isn't what gentlemen do. And Gonta is a gentleman!

Or, he tries to be.

Gentlemen protect their friends. And he couldn't protect Kaito. He sits down on his bed, the springs groaning under his weight. He never could protect Kaito. Whatever made Kaito sick was inside. And, Gonta thinks, he's not smart enough to help Kaito's insides.

Flexing, Gonta touches his bicep. Huge, easily enough to crush anyone who would threaten his friends or his bugs. But they couldn't protect Kaito.

Tears burst free as Gonta tries desperately to wipe them away. He just put on his good suit and gentlemen don't stain their good suits. But… gentlemen cry for their friends. And gentlemen protect their friends so that they don't have this dilemma.

Stupid Gonta. Stupid, no gentleman Gonta.

On his nightstand, a small habitat containing a  _ Oryctes nasicornis  _ rests. A European rhinoceros beetle. Gonta reaches in and lets the beetle crawl onto his hand. It's so small in his meaty paws, a gentle life that Gonta could inadvertently end with one careless move. He runs a single finger down the shiny brown carapace, making sure not to let any tears fall on his little friend. He'll protect this one. It's all he can do.

Gonta pets his beetle for the rest of the morning.

 

**12:16 a.m. Russeifa, Jordan**

 

Rantaro's phone rings silent in his ear. Did he just hear that right? Did Miss Yukizome really just tell him that Kaito Momota passed away? Two days ago at that? He stares at the phone, its off screen reflecting his own wide, disbelieving eyes right back at him.

He recognizes those eyes, they were the same eyes he had when he realized his sister had gone missing. Fear, confusion, panic, brilliantly colored irises disappearing as the black pupil expanded, as if letting in more light would somehow reveal that the news wasn't real, was all a joke. That the truth is his sister isn't missing and Kaito isn't dead.

Kaito can't be dead.

Rantaro sits in a beech chair on the balcony. The veneer chips away and the padding is flat. A noxious smell of phosphate from the local mines clings to the air. The coffee Rantaro's host family made him now looks entirely too much like sludge. He tries to take a sip. Bitter and thick and sticking to the inside of his throat.

Downstairs, his host family bickers over some late night game show being broadcast in English. He can't understand them. He only knows a few words of Arabic, much less Jordanian Arabic.

An instinctive part of him wants to run to the family for comfort, to throw himself down in a chair and disassociate for a while, let his mind stop the effusive bleeding that's caused by hearing awful news.

He looks out over the city. Flat-topped buildings, some ancient, others modern, stretch into the horizon. A tower crane juts from the skyline, towering over everything.

In his fantasies, Rantaro likes to pretend that he'll climb up that crane, that he'll see the whole city and each individual person. Then he'll see his sister and call out to her. She'll know where to look and wave and cry and cheer as they reunite. Of course, he knows that could never happen.

But the mind needs its fantasies.

He imagines that same scenario. Only this time, it's not his sister in the crowd, but Kaito. Kaito haggling - poorly, of course - with some street vendor. Rantaro would cry out for Kaito and the astronaut (who will never be in space now) would reply with a thumbs up and cheeky smile, the way he always does when he is so absolutely in over his head.

Finding his sister is more likely. Because finding his sister is possible. But no matter where Rantaro goes, Kaito will be dead. Exploration will never yield anything new in that regard.

He leans back in the chair and chugs his coffee, nearly coughing it up as he does so.

Rantaro plays out fantasy after fantasy of finding Kaito for the rest of the morning.

 

**7:55 a.m.**

 

The sun is shining, birds are chirping, children are waking to greet this glorious day that Atua has provided for Angie and all of her friends! Well, except one. But that's okay! That's okay! Because he is with Atua now and Atua will take good care of him. 

Well, Atua doesn't always take good care of his people. After all, people are just Atua's playthings and sometimes we are rough with our toys so therefore Atua will also sometimes be rough. But Kaito is a big, strong man, he will be able to take playtime with Atua.

Was. Was a big, strong man.

Angie hops from her bed and twirls into her yellow coat. Paintbrushes and sculpting tools clink pleasantly with her every movement, as she hums a nice little song. Atua likes it when Angie sings. Angie likes to sing, too! It cheers her up and makes her feel all tingly like she's got jitterbugs in her toes. But she knows that's silly. Atua is in her toes! That's why she hasn't been able to hear him for two days.

It makes perfect sense. He is distracted with how marvelous Kaito is and so He can't be in Angie's brain right now! Angie's brain is much too big and full of space for Atua. He needs a nice quiet place so He can talk with Kaito. Angie's toes are a brilliant choice! They're petite and soft and so cute because Rantaro did her nails before he left! Oh praise Atua's genius in picking body parts to inhabit!

And of course she can't hear Him. When He's in her brain, Atua is right next to her ear. He's not a very loud god, after all. So even if He did talk to Angie, she couldn't hear Him when He's all the way down by her feet.

She bends and touches her toes, trying to get her ears as close to her feet as possible so she can hear. But there's only silence. Silence and quiet and reticence and stillness and oh my my my Angie absolutely  _ has  _ to sing so the awful silence doesn't get her.

She reaches towards the ceiling, opening her mouth and lungs and singing as loud as possible so that Atua can hear her too!

In an exaggerated motion, Angie sweeps the pots of paint into her arms and plops them down onto a small table next to a blank canvas. If she can't hear Atua right now, then she will let Atua use her. He will likely want to show Kaito something magnificent and Angie is the bestest tool to do that!

She positions her brush against the blank canvas and closes her eyes, muttering to Atua, imploring Him to use to Angie's arm and express all those glorious things that Atua must think on a daily basis.

Angie's canvas remains blank for the rest of the morning.

 

**8:00 a.m.**

 

Ah, such a wonderful day, Kokichi thinks. Such a wonderful day to spend with his best pal, Kaito. Kokichi has quite the day planned, if he does say so himself! First, he and Kaito are going to run by Miu's labs and call her progressively more insulting names. Maybe if they're lucky she'll even beg for it!

Last time Kokichi did that, which was only a couple days ago, Kirumi got mad at him and chased him with a broom. And Kaito had so nicely offered his room for Kokichi to hide in. Well, "offered" may be stretching the truth a little bit. It was more like Kokichi had burst into Kaito's room and leapt into the closet, refusing to come out until Kirumi was long gone.

But to his credit, Kaito didn't say much. In fact, Kaito didn't say much of anything. He just laid on the bed like the lazy little scamp he is. 

Is. Is. Is.

When Kirumi had burst into the room, she looked so concerned. Of course she would! Mom was always getting on everybody about their sleeping habits. Which was so hypocritical of her considering  _ she  _ never slept.

But she looked so scared when she saw Kaito. And then she really threw a wrench in Kokichi's plan because she called a bunch of people who all swarmed Kaito and whisked him away. It took over two hours for them to clear out and Kokichi had waited in that cramped little closet full of messy shirts and jackets and things that Kokichi could've sworn were purple but maybe looked a bit too red.

And then Kaito had the gall to not come back that day. Or yesterday! How dare he! Kokichi is the Ultimate Supreme Leader. Supreme leaders do not like to be kept waiting.

So that's why Kaito is gonna spend all day with Kokichi today. As penance! Kokichi leaves his room to a surprisingly empty hallway. Pity, it's usually full of people to torment. One time he tricked Himiko into thinking she left her hat in her room when it was on her head! Kaito laughed so hard when that happened.

Kokichi toddles next door where Kaito's room is. Huh, that's strange, his nameplate is gone. Clever, Kaito, clever, trying to trick Kokichi into thinking that he's moved rooms. But Kokichi is always one step ahead. Whipping out his trusty master keycard that he  _ totally  _ didn't swipe from Headmaster Kirigiri, Kokichi bursts into Kaito's room.

It's clean, sterile. The bed is perfectly made, and it looks as if someone has made off with Kaito's stuff! All his junk he keeps around is gone! Someone must have bamboozled him out of it! Which would explain why he's hiding! He's just embarrassed. Silly, Kaito, everyone knows you're a dumb-dumb, no need to hide!

Kokichi turns on his heel and marches out of the room, taking care to lock it back up neatly. Now, where would he get off to? Ah-ha! The kitchen! Running off, Kokichi laughs to himself, ready for the fun-filled day he's going to have with Kaito today. And tomorrow. And the day after that!

Kokichi lies to himself for the rest of the morning.

 

**8:28 a.m.**

 

Mauve? No, that's not quite right. Lavender? Still too light. Magenta? No, there's too much pink there. Tsumugi crumples her color swathe and tosses it into a corner. None of these will do! They're all so plainly wrong.

She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes, sore from another all-nighter. She had been working on a Shinigami cosplay from  _ Soul Eater _ a few days earlier.

It seems a little too fitting to work on now.

So instead, she decided that she would work on a gift for Kaito. Something to give to his parents at the funeral, perhaps to help ease their pain. Even if it was from someone as plain as she, Tsumugi feels that a heartfelt gift might help mend heartbroken parents.

Oh who was she kidding? This was for her and it was all wrong. She can't find that "Kaito Purple" (as she calls it) and the shape of the coat is wonky. One sleeve is higher than the other, the zipper doesn't work right, the stitches are way too visible along the seam. Her fingers ache from the amount of times she pricked herself with her needle. Manual sewing had never been her strong suit but when she tried to use her machine, it failed her.

In other words, she knocked it off her desk in a burst of anguish when Kirumi told her the news.

She steps into her bathroom, just barely avoiding a needle that she hadn't been able to thread after an hour of trying. In her tub lies a wig from her very first cosplay. Kanata. God, that was so long ago. She had to dig up the wig from the all-consuming hole of cosplay that was her closet. It was tangled and matted so she left it in the bathtub with a whole bottle of conditioner.

Picking up the wig, several clumps come loose immediately but some of the others will take some serious teasing to get out. The starchy fake hair pricks the near-invisible wounds caused by her needle.

Nearly invisible, how she often feels. Maybe Kaito wished he was nearly invisible. It had taken him almost two years to tell any of them that he was sick, and that only happened because he coughed up blood in class one day. If he was as plain as she is, maybe no one would've noticed.

Would that make it better or worse? The not knowing? It would be sudden and tragic (not that it isn't now, but even more so). They could see it coming. She's not sure how many of her classmates. She knows she could. She's seen too many sick kids in anime and manga to know that they never live to their full potential. Artistic tragedy. To get people in the "feels."

Her stomach knots, tangled with guilt like her wig which she pulls close to her chest. Is it right? Is it right for creators to kill these wonderful characters just for the sake of drama, for the sake of catharsis? Fiction is fiction, trauma is real.

With tears in her eyes, Tsumugi grabs a handkerchief, depositing her wig back into the bath as she does. She dabs at her eyes, then stumbles around looking for her glasses. When she finds them, she eyes the coat.

Replication. Mimicry. Interpretation. All fundamentals of cosplay. To cosplay a dead character is seen as respectful or non-offensive. To cosplay as a dead person… Tsumugi contemplates running a razor over her skin for even thinking that she could do that.

Tsumugi tears the coat apart for the rest of the morning.

 

**9:37 a.m.**

 

That dumbass. Small-dicked, worthless, pea-brained, sack of giraffe shit. Cocky-ass, full-of-himself, slimy nippled, cock-sucking, cuckolded bitch. Miu mutters profanity to herself as she stomps back and forth in her lab, boots echoing against the whir of her inventions.

Fucking virgin, why'd he have to go and die? Now everyone's all fucking mopey and Miu can't get any work done 'cause these weak little shits keep asking her to "spend time with them" and "just be there." Can't they work out their shit on their own?

Miu has never refused one of them.

But still! They take up precious time that gorgeous girl geniuses could be using to make even more kick-ass inventions that will revolutionize the fucking world.

Or, they would have. If Kaito didn't fucking die.

She stops in front of her workbench. Sitting on top is the final prototype of an invention she'd been working on. Two hoses and a mask are hooked up to a modified rebreather designed as a backpack which is then connected to an external device that's Miu's pride and joy. It's meant to recycle carbon dioxide back into breathable oxygen. She meant to have Kaito test it during one of his training exercises in no-oxygen environments.

She never knew he hadn't been able to train like that for half a year.

But now she couldn't fucking test it. Well, she could. Could get Aoi Asahoe to test it in the pool or whatever. But that's no fucking fun. Why test it in water when she could test it in almost literal space?

She made it for Kaito, she wants him to test it, damn it.

Trudging over to her workbench, she yanks the entire device off the table and drags it to the incinerator. It's custom made, reduces everything to a pile of useless fucking ash. She holds her invention over the door, its maw open. If she stands on her toes, she can see the Hell-red flames licking their lips, ready for her offering.

Her grip tightens, then slacks as she drops the invention with an awful reverberating clang. She shuts the incinerator door, which creaks in disappointment. But she doesn't care.

Everything she did, everything she worked for was worthless anyway. She kicks the invention. Great, now her fucking toes hurt. God damn Kaito. This is his fault. If he was still around, if he was still around, if he was still  _ fucking  _ around… then… then…

Well she doesn't know, but she wouldn't feel so… this! She wouldn't want to destroy her invention. She wouldn't want to cradle it. She wouldn't want to hide it away. She wouldn't want to show it to the world. She wouldn't want to smash it to bits. She wouldn't want to lay it at his grave.

Miu paces back and forth, occasionally stopping to kick or trample her invention, for the rest of the morning.

  
  


**12:01 p.m.**

 

She needs the money. The stipend Hope's Peak gives her isn't enough. Not enough for the orphanage, that is. That's where it all goes anyway. But they lost a grant recently, so Maki took the job. Not like Hope's Peak will care; they probably have someone watching her right now, taking notes on her technique and studying her talent. Assholes.

Slipping through the window had been easier than she expected. It was open already. Made sense. It's hot and the small home doesn't seem to have air conditioning. Sweat beads on her brow and slips into her eyes. But she's long learned to ignore simple pains like that.

But you can never learn to deal with the deep agony of loss.

No, she can't think about that right now. She has a job to do. Slinking through the house, Maki tracks her target to a bedroom. Gentle snoring emanates from the cracked door. Really? Sleeping this late? Well, if they want to make it easy for her.

She unsheathes her knife, thin, deadly, thirsting for blood. It'll be quick, her target will bleed out before they even have a chance to wake up.

Maki pushes open the door, careful to listen for any squeaks that could give her away. The bedroom was messy, clothes strewn about and take-out containers piled in a corner. A remote sits by the foot of the bed next to a creaking fan that doesn't seem to be doing much. There's a mud stain near the door. On the nightstand there's a violently neon alarm clock with a space shuttle poking out from the top.

It reminds her of Kaito's room. She'd spent many nights there.

Stop it! She chastises herself. Before giving herself a chance to think, Maki creeps over to the bed and sees her target. Next to a woman. Great, her informant told her he lived alone. Must be a girlfriend or something. That makes this difficult.

Compounding that, the two are intertwined in a mess of limbs and bedsheets and hair. Her face is pressed against his chest with his chin resting carefully on her head. Their fingers are loose, each touching the other's, as if they were holding hands until sleep forced them to let go. Their lips rest in small, contented smiles.

What will she think, that girl? What will she think when she wakes up and sees him next to her, chest covered in blood, dead?

Goosebumps crawl up Maki's skin. She watched Kaito die. She watched his heart flatline in the emergency room. He didn't die like a man. He didn't die protecting anyone or die a hero's death. He didn't die in space or discovering some new planet.

No, he died weak and unconscious, front of his hospital gown covered in blood that he coughed up. Maki had held his hand, but he couldn't hold hers.

The alarm clock blares, rumbling like a shuttle would on takeoff. The two in bed stir but Maki is already gone.

She goes to a small cafe, orders a coffee, black. Then leaves, never picks it up. She can't eat or drink. Hasn't eaten or drank anything in two days. The knife feels as if it's carving a hole in her pocket, demanding to be set free so that it can quench its bloodthirst. She's gonna have to give away this job. How many at the orphanage will go hungry because of it? In the end, though, none of this matters.

She doesn't care about the confused barista.

She doesn't care about her knife.

She doesn't care about the couple.

She doesn't care about who will take her job.

She doesn't care about the kids at the orphanage.

All she cares about right now is Kaito. She's awful and selfish and cruel; she knows that all too well. She begins to run as tears stream down her face. They burn her, like holy water on a demon. Isn't that what her name means? Demon princess?

A guttural, bestial cry erupts from her throat as she barrels into Hope's Peak. She crumples through the door, nearly slamming into the elderly janitor. Instantly, she makes her way to the dorms. Kaito's room. His name plate is gone. Barely two days and they already are getting rid of him. She rams herself into the door, crying his name, cursing whatever took him.

Her foot nearly slips on something. She looks down and sees a master keycard laying conspicuously under the doorframe, just hidden enough that you would miss it unless you were looking for it.

She snatches it, unlocks the room, flings herself on the bed. His bed. No, not his bed. It doesn't smell like him anymore. It smells like laundry detergent and starch. She nearly retches.

She can't be in here anymore. Somber, she trudges back to her room, ignoring the concerned looks of her classmates and teachers.

On her own bed, she holds a picture. In it, Kaito smiles that stupid, shit-eating grin of his. In it, Maki's annoyed - she's never liked having her picture taken. In it, she's happier than she remembers being. She can't see the picture anymore. She's clenched her eyes shut, tears forcing their way out faster than she could ever hope to stop them.

Damn it all. Damn it ALL! This isn't her, she doesn't cry, especially not over some boy who at the end of the day doesn't even matter. Her heart pangs and she grabs her chest in pain. She can't even say he doesn't matter without feeling pain.

Head low, she cradles herself in her arms and tries to shut away the world.

Maki is numb for the rest of the mourning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Woo boy, I do not write happy stuff, do I? This is another cathartic one for me. It feels good when you finish writing something so feelsy, I guess.
> 
> Now, this work is going to be part of a series that I'm planning. The concept is "15 x." I will tell 15 smaller stories about the DRV3 class all sharing a similar theme. For each overarching story, one character will be left out for various reasons. That means Kaito will be back!
> 
> Anywho, as always comments and critique are appreciated!


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